


Come On Up To The House

by CrypticGabriel



Series: Drunk On The Moon [4]
Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, Addiction, Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, DDADDS Spoilers, Depression, Dissociation, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt, F/M, Flashbacks, Grief/Mourning, Home Videos, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Masturbation, Masturbation, Mild Sexual Content, POV First Person, Pregnancy, Reminiscing, Repression, Robert's pov, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Spoilers, Warning JUST in Case!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 11:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11805318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrypticGabriel/pseuds/CrypticGabriel
Summary: On Robert's worst days, he feels the need to mentally torture himself by watching home videos from better times. And in this mental anguish, he faces cold truths head on.





	Come On Up To The House

**Author's Note:**

> Guys... This is gonna HURT.  
> If you came here for happy feelings this Drunk on the Moon Update, this is completely DEVOID of it.
> 
> I've committed a great sin on this day. I'm sorry.

_Film is an art form._

_It’s_ what made me decide in 1985 to get one of those shoulder mounted camcorders. I’d felt inspired at the time. Even though I was working a basic desk job, I felt like keeping at least one spark of creativity alive.

That was the same year I asked Marilyn to move in with me.

I’d fallen in love young. I was fresh out of high school, and I was trying to find my place in the grand scheme of things. I’d found that after going to my friends’ parties and meeting this fiery, lovely woman by mere coincidence, there was something calling to me that gave my life some more meaning. I still have a hard time believing that she saw anything in me that was worth spending an ounce of her life on. But sure enough, I was lucky enough to not only start dating her but also get an enthusiastic “Yes!” from her when I asked her to marry me.

I was the luckiest man in the world, actually.

\--

**[1986]**

_“Robert?”_

_I was shoving the tape_ into the camcorder when she called for me from the apartment’s balcony. I lugged it out with me, looking at her with a smile.

“Hey. Check it out, it’s not going haywire.”

She sat back in her chair and grinned up at me. “I see that. Did you send the wedding invitations to your parents?”

I blinked awkwardly and hesitated. “Uh… Major Tom to Ground Control, I have a situation up here.”

She gasped and crossed her arms. “Robert!”

“I’m kidding,” I laughed and set the camera down on the table. “Ma’s coming. Pappy hasn’t gotten back to me yet. Don’t worry, I’m on top of it.”

Her previously narrowed eyes soften, and she nodded. “Okay. You’re out of the doghouse for the day.”

“Thank goodness,” I beamed and turned the camcorder on. “Now, we’re getting married in six months. How do you feel?”

She looked at the lens briefly before looking back at me with a smile. “Excited. Everything is going to go perfectly to plan.”

“I’m incredibly excited as well,” I insisted and leaned in to give her a kiss. “Future Mrs. Small.”

She smirked against my lips as she was pulling away, and she ran her hand through my hair. “You’re a dork.”

“ _Your_ dork?” I teased.

“Don’t push it,” she snorted, all in good fun.

She got me. We complemented each other. We were two kindred spirits saving the world one day at a time. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

\--

_I wake up in cold sweat_ , my temples pulsing just from the harshness of the light peeking through the slits in the blinds. Today is just going to be one of those days.

Everything becomes physically taxing. Brushing my teeth, clearing a pathway from my bedroom to the bathroom because the shit just keeps piling in here, and even finding it in me to go downstairs and is hard. I’m in no mood to go outside, so whatever mail or newspapers are out there waiting there for me will just keep the bugs company. Oh yeah, there’s probably bugs in the mailbox. I hardly ever check it.

Feeding Betsy is one thing I can do a little less strenuously, but she doesn’t seem to be in the mood today either. She’d rather sunbathe than hang out with little ol’ me. That’s okay. I really wouldn’t be the best company today.

I raid my collection of bottles and glasses at my makeshift bar to find that I ran out of White Zin again. I just grab two bottles of whiskey, and after I get drunk enough, I’ll be able to just pretend that I’m drinking something else. Sometimes that works if I’m feeling that pathetic.

There’s a place in my heart that cannot be filled. Even if I try and replace the emptiness with booze, it will just leak out of the porous space and taint my insides. It’s worth a shot to at least try it, though.

Nostalgia hits me like The Plague, and I stare at my shelves of endless cassette tapes. Only a few of them are on my mind right now. I’ll have to appease the piece of myself that is deprived of these glimpses into better times.

It feels more like a suicide mission than anything, but I can’t just let my mind think of different memories, either. Bittersweet nostalgia rotting away at my brain outweighs the vindictive reminder of all my regrets licking at my mind and teasing me with its cold fangs any time.

I’m more or less ready to get broken for the day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Robert and Marilyn Small, 1987**

**[15 April - 18:48:21, 22, 23...]**

_The recording is pretty fucking dark,_ but with what little light there is, I could see just a glimpse into a piece of history that made me into the man that I am today. I hear Whitney Houston, David Bowie, and hell, even Bon Jovi coming to the party and completely making the space devoid of silence.

It’s a lot more comforting than it seems.

Thank god, I didn’t have _that_ embarrassing of a mullet back then, and Marilyn’s hair is mighty long with the tell-tale bangs that were the style at the time. But despite our bad hairstyles and the noise that we both seem to be discomforted by at the initial start of the recording, we were both happy.

I remember setting the camera up on the other side of the table to get a nice shot of us, and for the most part, I did fairly well. We’re in the center of the action, drinking our fruity wine and singing along to whatever song is next playing on the stereo.

“Is your cake delicious, Mrs. Small?” I teased her while holding a forkful up to her lips.

She chuckled as she ate from it, and just seeing her smile even in a recording makes me weak. “It sure is, Mr. Small.”

“Wanna dance?” I offered as we were settled, our glasses now empty.

She nodded eagerly as she stood up and held out for my hand. We didn’t appear to be drunk, but we were laughing while trying to regain our footing from something I genuinely don’t remember. Maybe I accidentally stepped on the train of her gown, or something.

We asked someone to move the camera to follow us to the dance floor, and I can hear the ear-splitting shift as the view was pivoted from the wall to the center of the room where we were dancing. And although it was muted from being an ancient recording, I can hear a familiar song hit me like a tidal wave. The piano introduction gets to me every time.

_Drunk on the Moon._

“Yes!” I’d cheered in the recording, which caused our families and old friends to laugh.

None of them understood how much I love Tom Waits.

I could remember how she looked when she smiled at me. It’s a shame that we’re too far away from the camera to see how beautiful her smile was. But the music is playing loud. It just makes me all the more envious of my past self.

_“And I’m blinded by the neon,_

_Don’t try and change my tune._

_‘Cause I thought I heard a saxophone,_

_I’m drunk on the moon.”_

He dances with her and gives her love, like newlyweds typically do. He spins her around the dancefloor and makes her laugh, and she doesn’t have a single hint of worry about her. He has a smile that isn’t jaded, and there’s a genuine spark in his eyes. I want to be that guy again, but I can see now that the possibility of that ever happening is growing less and less plausible.

_What happened?_

 

* * *

 

 

**Marilyn**

_I remember each time that I_ turned the camcorder on for this tape. It was something that I was working on over the course of three years, up until I’d found out that Marilyn was pregnant and I had new thoughts and aspirations.

This one I like to watch from time to time on days that I miss her so much that not even the beckoning call of another warm body can ease the pain anymore.

 

**[16 July 1987 - 08:33:12, 13, 14...]**

The curtains keep the light from coming into the bedroom, but I can still see some semblance of figures on the screen. The camera is over my shoulder, and my footsteps are a little exaggerated in the recording.

It led to the bed, where Marilyn was still sleeping soundly. Her hair was mussed up from the shifting she often did in her sleep.

“There she is…” I’d murmured aloud. “Look at her. You could only wish your wife was as graceful as mine is.”

I chuckle to myself when hearing the sound of my own voice. It’s a lot less gruff than it is now. Less cigarettes and whiskey.

“I’m the luckiest man in the world,” I then continued while she’d started to wake up. “It’s not every day that a man marries a goddess.”

“What are you babbling about?” she’d mumbled groggily while rubbing her eyes.

“Good morning to you, too,” I grinned. “I was just saying how I feel so grateful to be in the presence of a goddess.”

“You’re damn right,” she teased confidently while she looked at the camera. Her face then fell as she embarrassedly covered herself. “Robert, I didn’t put my face on yet! I just woke up.”

“You’re still divine.”

She started to giggle. “Thanks, but I need my makeup on first.”

“I love you, too.”

As I hear the sweet laughter on the television, I down my fifth shot of whiskey. I skip over some more footage that’s playing until I get to a different time.

 

**[3 May 1989 - 19:45:03, 04, 05...]**

_New year, new hairstyles. Marilyn changed_ up her bangs, and her hair still was as long as ever. She looked so relaxed just watching the sun set over the West side of the skyline. It was one of her favorite pastimes.

I remember that I couldn’t help myself.

_“Marilyn!”_

She’d jumped up in her chair when I’d startled her. As I was helplessly cackling, all beside myself, she’d glared and went to swat at my shoulder. She missed. I was still laughing hard.

“You asshole!” she shouted, her eyes wide. “I was deep in thought!”

“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t help myself!”

I’d set the camera down to console her, and I can hear the two of us kissing in the background. These were simpler times, and while I was still drinking, I was still trying to figure out where I went wrong.

 

**[10 January 1990 - 17:02:36, 37, 38...]**

_Dinner was being made, but I_ felt the need to show off my small collection of whittling projects on video. In that process, I’d heard Marilyn start to sing while she was cooking. It made me take a break from showing off my collection, and I moved from the living room into the kitchen.

She wore the apron that drove me crazy in the best kind of way. And she looked so flawless making our meal.

Now that I see this past footage of her, I realize how much Val looks just like her.

“Hey, Marilyn,” I hum, starting to sing along to the song she was singing.

I remembered I’d looped an arm around her, but it’s not shown on the video. She turned her head to look at me, and she gave me a bright smile. She then looked like she’d bumped into something—the camcorder—and playfully grimaced.

“How often are you gonna lug that silly thing around?”

“Until my shoulder gets so big that I have to wear bigger shirts to accommodate for it.”

She grinned, and there was a kiss heard off camera.

“Wanna do something tonight?” I then hear myself ask invitingly.

“Maybe.”

“You’re positively cruel. I love you.”

I laugh dryly and start skipping more of the tape.

The last of the footage is from the same night. We’re on the bed, and somehow I’d found a decent enough angle from the nightstand to get all of the pending action. The dull light of the bedside lamp made Marilyn’s skin glow while she was underneath me.

The dark urge to crawl back to the deep recesses of my mind and pull out _these_ memories to ease the hurt I’m feeling right now is so transparent that I can’t see the paper thin line keeping myself from doing it.

She always loved when I fucked her _just_ the way she liked it. She’d tell me so, too, loud and clear and edging me on in the best ways. She was the biggest enabler to my lustful tendencies.

Her body had only gotten better with age, by the way. I remember the last time we fucked, and she was worried that because my mind was so jaded and I was focused on other things that I wouldn’t want her the same way that I did in this footage from nearly twenty-eight years ago. But I _did,_ and I’d lavished her as I always would. And afterwards, instead of praising me and wrapping her body around me in a vice grip to keep me close, she’d turned away from me and started crying.

She never let me touch her again.

And all I can think of as I have Marilyn’s moans and cries on the video blasting through the surround sound system is that icy void that was left festering at the bedside when she refused to look at me.

The worst part is that right now I can’t look away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**My Baby, 1990**

**[6 June - 14:02:27, 28, 29...]**

_“…So. I thought of showing you_ what the nursery looked like before you were born. Let’s go have a look.”

I’ve run out of whiskey.

I don’t feel comfortable enough to get off the couch and grab more. So I just sit here, watching and hoping that I don’t sober up any time soon. That’d mean I’d have to get up and go to the liquor store. I need to just stay home and pretend to be dead for a little while longer.

After that small snippet at the end of the **Marilyn** tape, we’d found out that she was pregnant with Val. We were scared at first, but we fully embraced the idea of being parents head-on. Yeah. I wanted to be a dad. Imagine that. You’d think that from what people say about me that I absolutely hated the idea, but here’s the proof right here.

As soon as someone brings up that I inherently hated my daughter, even before she was born, because I gave in to addiction and became the person that I am today, I want to punch them in the teeth. Queensbury Style. I don’t think Queensbury would actually approve, but the satisfaction of doing it would be so worth it.

In this video, I’m going through all the different adventures I had with Marilyn while we were preparing for Val’s arrival. Every time I saw my face in this tape, I had these bright eyes I don’t ever remember having and a smile that stretched from ear to ear. Things were much simpler, then.

“Here’s where the crib is, and Mama wanted to add a toy shrine over here. Hopefully it’ll keep the cryptids at bay,” I hear myself tell the camera while I was recording. “Well, even if you do become a cryptid, I’ll still love and support you. You’ll be my little monster baby.”

I always liked how her room was set up. Marilyn did most of the interior design work, while I constructed all the impossible furniture that would still get fucked by Ikea’s difficult instructions if they were put up against each other. I put the camera down and sit in a rocking chair that was within the shot. I clasped my hands together audibly and gave the lens a bright smile.

“So. You’re gonna be here in a couple months,” I said. “I just want you to know that I may not be perfect, but I still love you a lot. And your mama’s crazy about you. I hope that I can be a good dad that you can be proud of when you’re older and you start your own family. We still have a long time before that happens, so I want you to be good up until then. Once you’re out of our house, you can then do whatever your little heart desires.”

I didn’t ask for this.

The video shifts, and the picture jitters and shakes while I was getting up and moving to another side of the apartment. I’m both nauseated and devastated. Two things I shouldn’t be feeling at the same time are suddenly all that I feel right now.

My aspirations were _right there_ , and yet I decided to ignore my gut feeling to be a good dad and decided to swindle it. That inherently makes me a despicable person. Even as I see myself helping Marilyn with her bags when she walked through the door—the poor thing looked so tired after running around while carrying our child all day—I feel such a magnificent heartbreak. I swear, Marilyn’s ghost is laughing at my pain and suffering as I watch this, thinking about all the incomplete fulfillments I never me and all the things I told Val I was going to do but had never done because I was selfish.

I find some spare booze underneath my pile of lighters in a kitchen drawer. That will tide me over for a little while longer, while I torture myself with all these repressed feelings that usually a warm body would help alleviate. Not today. Sometimes, the bitter medicine going down the back of your throat is a better reliever than feeling warmth against your skin.

\--

_I think in my head about_ the joy I felt when Val was born. She wasn’t any bigger than a loaf of bread, and Marilyn was an absolute champ during the whole thing. When I held my baby in my arms and looked at her for the very first time, I knew that there was something inside me that was capable of giving this sweet child everything that she deserved, even when she was still just a tiny, wrinkly being nestled in my hands.

That surge was what made me cry when I had her in my arms. I’d never felt so lucky in my entire life. I had an absolute queen for a wife, and my daughter was the most perfect blessing I could ever have hoped for.

I’d made a vow to do everything I could to make her happy, even if it was at the cost of my life. Little did I know that I would intentionally break that vow as she grew up, and I’d choose to live in a blissful ignorance that was fed to me from the nozzle of the gerbil bottle full of liquor inside my cage.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Val’s First Steps, 1991**

**[30 August - 10:56:06, 07, 08...]**

_“That’s it, baby. Now, what sound does a dog make—oh, Val! That’s not a toy.”_

_I hear myself laughing through the_ surround system while the baby tried grabbing the huge camcorder from off my shoulder. I was too quick for her and moved it away in the midst of it.

“You’re getting so big, Val,” I laughed while she looked at something that was off screen, deeply concentrating on it. She was the most precious baby in the world, hands down.

I’m so distracted by watching her stand up using the couch for support to notice that while I was attempting one more swig, the bottle completely missed my lips and spilt onto my shirt. It’s not like there’s going to be a stain there, or anything. Her legs were so wobbly, and when I’d called Marilyn in to hurry and watch, she was right there at the other end of the shot reaching out for our daughter to meet her halfway.

Sure enough, in this video, she did. And at that time, I remember it being one of the greatest days of my life. I couldn’t have imagined anything better than this. But it was at this moment, as I was gathering up the last video in my small collection that was even worth looking at right now, that I could figure out one main source as to where everything went wrong. I can’t pinpoint the _exact_ reason, and I don’t think I ever will. It was just a huge chain of events, one right after the other, that caused me to feel like the only thing that could help me was not my family, but an endless tab of shots after shots that attempted to fill the void as well as it could for just a small amount of time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

**Val and Daddy, 1993**

_My mother died that year._

_No_ one could’ve prevented it. Despite the divorce decades earlier, my Pap was pretty devastated by it. We all were. And I couldn’t console in anyone, not even my own family. I started to hang out at the bars and clubs in Brooklyn as a means of escapism, but I don’t think it got as bad as it truly was until maybe another decade after this tape.

I lost my job that year, as well.

I could sense a change in myself as I was with Val while she was playing with her toys. And as I watch her right now, I can’t believe that it was _this_ early on when I felt like I had nothing and nowhere else to turn to for easing the pain. I couldn’t talk to a toddler about mental anguish or self-doubt. And Marilyn was now working more hours at her job while I kept putting off going to an employment office for another chance at a different desk job. It never would really work out.

 

**[8 October 1993 - 15:35:40, 41, 42...]**

_She was talking about two of_ her little cats and her toy bird going on an adventure together through the woods when I see her move closer to me in the video and reach her arms up.

If this was the last image I would see before I’d suddenly die of alcohol poisoning, I’ll at least know that I was blessed by her imaginative sweetness. I’d set the camera down, and all I see is her getting up on her tiptoes while I’d knelt further down to give her a big hug.

This video is Oscar worthy.

“Da—!” Val started to break off into giggles when I started tickling under her arms. I could remember this like it was yesterday, and I watched as she was trying to tickle me, too. It more or less was working out in her favor, as the laughter that follows her actions didn’t sound too forced.

What completely shattered the mood was when the phone started to ring within the video.

My eye starts to twitch as I watched myself move away from Val and tell her that I’d be right back, like there was something in my life that was more important than spending as much time with her as I possibly could.

“‘Ey, Vinny! What’s happening, brother?”

I shake my head, feeling like I’m drifting further and further away from my spot on the couch and yet my body isn’t moving at all. I’m not… _there._ I instead fill the shoes of the husk that’s in the video. I remember the call very well.

Vincenzo, this nobody that I met at a bar one night, wanted me to go out with him again. And during that night I’d gotten so black-out drunk that I couldn’t explain to Marilyn why there was puke all over my jacket or why I had two black eyes and a busted lip. I still can’t tell you what happened that night. There’s an extreme blot in my memory that can never be cleaned off.

“I have to wait until my family’s sleeping,” I’d said, sounding enthusiastic in the memory but as I hear myself talking over top of it, my words sounded hollow. “But don’t worry.”

The memory echoes so loud that I have to cover my ears, and in its wake it leaves missing pieces that I tried keeping out of my head for decades. There were parties, endless shots, and powder leaving me in a crazed buzz for several hours even after inhaling it. Red eyes stared back at me with this dull glow whenever I’d look in the mirror and see myself trying to comprehend what day, year, or hour it was.

Several years of trying to hold my own liquor and preventing my stomach from trying to cave in on itself with how hard it heaves into whatever source I could find had been an acquired talent of mine. And the endless fights between me and Marilyn began, as well as the looks of utter disappointment when I would yet again miss something that Val had anticipated me going to.

While I was talking in the actual memory, I’d had this carefree, enthusiastic tone to my voice. But as I’m reliving the memory now with this dark weight crushing me, I sound vindictive and malicious, like I’d intended to destroy everything that I’d spent years building up.

_“Tonight, we ride!”_

 

* * *

 

 

_I’d blacked out after that._

_I_ apologized profusely to Betsy for not giving her dinner before I went unconscious, and I think I may have been shaken up over it. I’m not entirely sure. I was probably still a little drunk.

It was two in the morning when I’d regained consciousness and was greeted by the white noise of the finished tape. Even after I’d turned it off, I was still haunted by the noise that had startled me from my sudden sleep. My feet felt like weights as I trudged into bed, feeling ten times worse than I did before. I blame it on the way that I’d woken up.

I was haunted by Val’s laughter, her crying, and her hard glare as she’d looked at me with scorn at her high school graduation. I’d made her hate me, and it only was a matter of time before she’d never wanted to speak to me again.

I could feel something pulling me further up the stairs, luring me to my bed. It was almost as if Marilyn’s ghost threw a lasso around me and dragged me up so that she could give me another stern talking to. But instead of feeling that sudden pang of guilt as I fall into the sheets, it’s the warmth that I’d craved all day but had no interest in seeking out.

It always felt so good when she was luring me in.

I don’t focus on the fact that it’s only by my own hand that I’m getting the satisfying thrill of being with her one more time. It’s better to mask your suffering with the heat of arousal than to face it head-on any day.

With the way my pillows are sprawled underneath my body, I can pantomime the way I used to touch her, knowing all the spots by heart that made her gasp my name again and again. I drink up this elixir and revel in its poisonous effects.

It’s almost enough to replicate the real thing.

\--

_It was nine in the morning_ when I heard a notification on my phone that startled me awake. It takes me several minutes to just open my eyes. The sheets underneath me feel stiff from last night’s close encounter, and I immediately feel the filth that sobriety taunts me with on a daily basis.

I’m surprised to see a nice familiar face trying to contact me.

 

**Decent Human Being:**

Hey man, I dunno where you’ve been but we should grab a drink soon.

 

My heart aches.

I’d rather choke on my own bile than drink again. At least, for today.

I shove my phone aside and sink deeper into the bed, trying to just go back to sleep. I don’t want to move. And I stay still for a very long time. I’m pretty sure that I could’ve been pronounced dead several times from the stiffness of my body and the lack of focus or life on my face.

It isn’t until noon when I drag myself up, feed Betsy, and spend the rest of the afternoon on the balcony. I just sit there, smoking and trying to clear my head with the nicotine as a crutch. I’m numb to any thoughts lurking in my conscience, and I stare out at the different yards and the bay ahead of me.

My eyes close shut, wincing at the sudden pang of emotion I feel lodged into the back of my throat.

\--

_“This town is lovely. And look,_ you’ve made so many great friends, Robert. I knew this would be good for us.”

I choked back the sudden urge to belch out the bubbling fire from the drink I’d downed in the bedroom before coming out to the balcony. “Yeah. It’s almost like old times. Except quieter. I like the silence.”

“It’s growing on me,” she beamed. Her aged hand was on top of mine, giving me another wave of comfort.

While we stared out at the sunset, like we were mimicking how an old married couple spent their last few years together, I thought of the past several weeks. I’d given in to temptations I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do. The urge was just too strong, and despite my attempts to hide the fact that I’m returning to my old ways, it was as if Marilyn already knew.

She was just… not saying anything about it to me.

It hurt. And as she was holding my hand and I could feel her fingertips gripping and shaking against my skin, I knew that she was fighting some kind of urge. Whether she’d wanted to cry, scold, or scream at me, I will never know. I’d wanted to tell her that I was sorry, but I knew that no amount of apology would correct the wrongs that I’d done.

I loved her. I wanted her to be proud of me. I wanted _Val_ to be proud of me. I wanted to show them that I could change, that I could be a good husband and father for once. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. That wasn’t me. And I thought of how full of hopes and dreams I was in my past life, where I’d wanted to pursue film and create stories about con men and cryptid hunters making it in the world.

When I looked into her eyes and leaned close to try and kiss her, she turned her head away. She was gnawing at her lip, like she tended to do when she was upset. I tried to console her by taking a gentle hold on her arm to beckon her closer to me, but at that point she’d gotten up from her chair.

“Not now, Robert.” Her throat was thick with emotion, and she had this look of defeat on her tired face that I knew I was the cause of.

When I heard the sliding door slam and felt my entire body jolt from the sudden shock of the sound, I stayed in that chair. I wouldn’t dare go after her when she was like this, but I truly just wanted to get the words out of my system that were festering inside. I needed to tell her the truth, but somehow… I just couldn’t.

And I didn’t know that just a few weeks later—when she looked devastated after seeing me wake up with one of the worst hangovers of my life and took off, proclaiming that she was going shopping—I would never see her alive again.

**Author's Note:**

> COME HERE IF YOU WANT TO YELL AT ME:  
> [tumblr](http://tiff-the-little-wanderer.tumblr.com)  
> [writing blog](http://wanderingtiff.tumblr.com)  
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